


Blown

by arestorationofbalance



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bruce Wayne Being an Idiot, Bruce Wayne is Bad at Communicating, F/M, Femdom, Light Dom/sub, Oral Sex, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:02:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29642055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arestorationofbalance/pseuds/arestorationofbalance
Summary: Summary: You weren’t sure of the exact power dynamics you had with Bruce Wayne, a hazy memory of sugar something after one too many flutes of champagne at a charity. However after one tantrum too many, you show Bruce who’s in charge on his birthday./ Fuck Bruce Wayne. It must be the businessman in him, you thought. That was why he was so good at negotiation.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 23





	Blown

**Author's Note:**

> Happy belated birthday to the grumpy bat himself!

Four flutes in. Both in champagne and wind instruments. The airy tones did nothing to make the night more whimsical nor tolerable as you left your empty glass with a server before wandering through the open doors to the gardens of Wayne Manor.

It was a breath of fresh air though the weather was balmy. Having to share niceties and fake smiles with the upper echelon of society was still exhausting regardless of the fact that you were raised in such a life since birth.

The gardens were dimly lit, creating an ethereal glow as you treaded the paved path. It reminded you of the fairytales your au pair used to read to you as child, the imagery only strengthened by the warm peach and pink tones of the English roses that lined the way.

Tonight’s interpretation of Debussy’s Syrinx danced between your ears, the clicks of your stilettos ruining the piece’s measures.

“It’s unbecoming for a woman of your status to be stomping around the host’s gardens inebriated and unsupervised,” you heard from behind. You didn’t remember that being a part of the song.

You turned around.

Bruce Wayne, the host of tonight’s charity dinner, stood behind you, amused.

Feeling heat creep up from your toes to your face, your mind ran through different reasons to excuse your departure aside from drunkenness and boredom but could only come up with a deep interest in botany.

Seeing your lack of response, Bruce offered an apology. “I’m only teasing, Miss…” The emphasis he placed on your last name sent shivers down your spine, reminding you of your place and what you were doing.

Your father was a longtime associate with Wayne Enterprises, often doing contract work for them. Your family’s fortune was nearly built off of the Waynes as the work relationship helped you transition into upper middle class to new money by the time you were born.

Giving him a polite smile, you took the elbow that he offered but the two of you didn’t walk back towards the banquet hall.

\---

Nursing a headache and scarfing down pills and water in an undignified matter, you tried to recall the events of last night after you walked into the garden.

Everything was remembered through pale gold lenses and bubbly tones. Bruce Wayne in his fitted Armani suit. Making a right instead of walking straight towards the open doors to return to socializing. Finding relief from the heat in the cold stone of the manor against your back as the young man pressed into you, deepening the kiss you shared. A proposition.

A proposition? Your brow furrowed, trying to recall the exact details of the verbal contract you made with Bruce last night.

 _Something_ in exchange for sex.

\---

You weren’t sure of why he chose _you_ out of all the women that fawned over him. Anyone with eyes could tell that Bruce Wayne was a handsome young man and would only grow into his looks with age. Perhaps he was tired of the pestering from board members and the local paparazzi to settle down with _one_ lover, thinking it was only logical for him to choose you because the two of you were closest in age, him being in his early 20s and you in your late 20s. Surely you were the more desirable choice compared to the middle-aged married women that threw themselves at him during Gotham events.

Having sexual relations with you was also convenient. Compared to all of the supermodels, celebrities and other individuals that he’s been known to philander with, at least you were local. If anything, the proposition was related to convenience. You were used to these kinds of relationships.

Ever future-minded, you would much rather read a scintillating tabloid cover about you and him compared to the other eligible bachelors of Gotham. At least he was good looking.

When you presented your theory on how this relationship came about months later, you would hear Bruce Wayne genuinely laugh for the first time.

\---

Sex with Bruce was surprisingly passionate. You learned firsthand that the gossip rags were certainly slandering his name, perhaps even being sponsored by a spurned lover.

Though the sex was good, the transactions that happened before or after it left you confused more often than not. Sometimes he gave you gifts and sometimes he told you that he expected a donation towards some charity. Sometimes you heard him speak quietly into your hair that he simply needed to see you, to _have_ you. You didn’t understand the meaning of sugar in your relationship nor who gave to who. It didn’t matter to you either way. It was worth it.

Perhaps it was because of familiarity and comfort but the previously stoic young man had become more open with you. Though at first you rejoiced it as a good thing, secretly wondering if your transactional relationship would transition into something more akin to friends with benefits, you realized that a more emotional Bruce could be exhausting to deal with.

He was prone to tantrums when he didn’t get his way or when his expectations weren’t met. It was to be expected as someone who came from old money as well as the head of a multi-billion-dollar corporation.

However, what frustrated you was the limited communication during these tantrums.

The first time he threw a tantrum with you was after you both met up in New York when your schedules aligned, opting to take a plane ride home together after.

“I’m not going,” you said with a sternness in your voice as you flattened out the creased lines of your skirt and made sure your hair was presentable before the two of you caught a cab to JFK.

You tried to explain yourself. “I’m not saying that the cause _isn’t_ worthy. I’m more than willing to write you a check for it. I’m merely saying that it isn’t worthy of my _physical_ presence.”

Stealing a glance at Bruce, tall and handsome as ever, you watched as he buttoned his cuff links before shrugging on his blazer, a look of displeasure on his face. He was quiet.

There was an uncomfortable tension as the two of you stood side by side, you silent as he hailed a cab. It continued on as you checked in to your flight and queued up at the terminal. You were nearly tempted to break and give in during the flight home but chose to sleep it off instead.

He hoisted your matching luggage from the baggage carousel, finally looking you in the eye and speaking to you as he handed you the bags.

“ _You’re going_.”

\---

Bruce hovered over you, large body creating a shadow over your form. You couldn’t meet the blue intensity of his gaze, opting to look at his muscles that rippled and flexed in this position instead.

Your hips bucked weakly against his, in hopes that it would give off enough friction to satisfy you. It didn’t.

“Say it.”

You bit your lip, still reluctant to give into his demands. The man held you to your promises and you didn’t want to agree to something you couldn’t get out of.

He tried to appeal to your hesitance, his hips finally moving. A moan escaped your lips as you finally felt some relief but his strokes were teasing, aching and _slow_.

“Say it,” he commanded again.

He moved faster this time, finally reaching a pace that left you a mess beneath him, the bed finally squeaking again. You were close.

“ _Well_?”

Ignoring him would prove to be a stupid move as your orgasm eluded you once more. You let out a frustrated groan as he stilled inside you, setting down one leg of yours off of his shoulder. He wouldn’t be able to hit _that spot_ by doing so.

Fuck Bruce Wayne.

It must be the businessman in him, you thought. That was why he was so good at negotiation.

He was finally fucking you again. The wait must have been frustrating for him too, though he didn’t show it on his features. With the new position however, you knew you wouldn’t have that hard climax that you sought and were denied during today’s midday tryst.

You gave in, the feeling of defeat and frustration overcoming you as you started to feel your toes curl from the pleasure.

“Ugh, yes, _fuck_ ,” you groaned. You always dropped formalities and manners when you were about to cum. Bruce lifted your hips off the bed once more at your appeasement, this time pressing your knees to your ears so he could press into you deeply. He was finally hitting that spot again.

His eyes met yours, giving you a look of warning. You were forgetting something, something more binding than a synonym for agreement. He wanted a definitive statement.

“Fine,” you stuttered out, hoping he wouldn’t stop again. “ _I’ll come_.”

The headboard tapped against the wall in combination with the squeaks of the bed as you finally received your end of the transaction.

Bruce Wayne always got his way.

\---

After one particularly cruel and delayed orgasm that was eventually denied, you thought of the nature of your relationship with Bruce Wayne. There were many benefits to being with the man even though you kept your relationship private.

Your lips set in a thin line as you thought of the cost of those benefits though. You thought of the negotiations, the submission, that feeling of annoyance that stirred in you when he’d smirk at your acceptance to his deals. You thought of his silent treatment when he wouldn’t get his way and his passive-aggressive behavior until you relented.

You finally said your feelings out loud to no one in particular.

“Bruce Wayne is a fucking brat.”

\---

His anger was quiet as he strolled through the great room of your penthouse, sloppily discarding his Gieves & Hawkes suit jacket on the ground, not before making eye contact with you, as if telling you it was your place to catch it before it fell. You stayed in your spot on the leather sofa. This would be the start of his tantrum.

You were unsure of why he was sulking so early in the morning when you were certain he had more than enough sleep last night. Though in the off chance that he didn’t, it wasn’t your fault that he couldn’t manage his nightly affairs, whatever they might be.

He kneeled before you, uncrossing your legs. His view from below made it possible for Bruce to look up your skirt if he wanted. The package that he sent yesterday still laid untouched on the table and you watched as he twisted to retrieve it.

Six inch Louboutin’s with soft leather straps that would intertwine and dance across your legs, making them impossibly long, the way that he liked them to look. He would later admit that he didn’t buy you them to look like a graceful dancer. He wanted you to stand tall, intimidating and imposing.

He was silent as placed them on you, thick calloused fingers somehow nimbly tying the straps into dainty bows. He leaned back to admire his work and his head remained bowed, dark locks falling over his eyes.

With the toe of the stiletto, you lifted his chin to make him look at you. His gaze, despite his position, was disdainful. You couldn’t ascertain about what just yet but the young man was clearly upset about something.

You were correct in your assessment of him and of your relationship.

Bruce Wayne was a fucking brat.

And today the young man needed to be punished.

“Use your words,” you said mockingly, your usual tone of voice traded for something cooler and more collected. Bruce would later recall that it was the voice you often used in interviews on the local news, a tone that carried an air of aloofness and sophistication. It was the voice you used when you wanted to be in control.

Bruce didn’t say anything, only looked at you with defiance.

“You’re obviously upset.”

Nothing.

“It’s no good for either of us if you’re lying, _boy_.”

There was something incredibly demeaning in the way you addressed him, an uncomfortably tickling feeling in his stomach as Bruce bit his tongue to fight the urge to tell you that he was a _man_. You knew this and he wouldn’t let you forget any time he fucked you. Yet he found himself uncharacteristically quiet -and dare he say _submissive_ \- as your gaze traveled down the length of your body back to Bruce’s eyes, a teasing and cruel smile on your lips. He shifted slightly and your smile grew wider. You knew what your words did to him.

“You’re upset because I forgot your birthday last week.”

Finally there was a flicker of _something_ that flashed across his eyes that told you that you were correct. It was a shame that he wasn’t in touch with his feelings.

You smiled. “Did you really think that I would forget such an important day, Bruce?”

How could you? You already knew he was seething when you declined his request to go with him to Milan last week for his birthday. You knew that when you met again, it would be his third tantrum. But unlike the first and second, you were prepared. You would give him something better than a trip to Italy, something that he’d wish for every year as he blew his candles out. You’d give him something that would take his breath away.

“Sit,” you ordered, patting the spot next to you on the couch.

His movements were unusually stiff for a normally graceful giant. It was only when he stood up to his full height that you realized the cause of his stiffness as you met it face-to-face, the tenting in his pants looking incredibly uncomfortable. You feigned ignorance and looked away.

With Bruce settled in as best as he could be, his tie loosened and a few buttons of his shirt undone and his legs splayed open, you reached towards one of the side tables, pulling out a neatly decorated slice of cake from the small treat box. You struck two matches before getting the single candle on it to light up.

You settled into the crook of his arm that he had casually thrown across the back of the couch, his eyes watching the dance of the flame.

“It’s your favorite flavor,” you told him. He leaned into you, ready to blow the candle out and devour it.

Pulling back, you gave him a teasing ‘uh-uh-uh.’ You set it down on the coffee table, a small smile on your face at the quiet and controlled huff he let out. You wondered how often it was that he didn’t get his way. Today would probably be the first time with you.

“There’s something _else_ that needs to be blown before that candle,” you told him, giving him a wink before sliding down to your knees to undo his belt.

Bruce was a large man and you expected no less of his member. Yet as many times as you’ve had him, it was always a surprise to see it stand in full salutation, the engorged member heavy in your hands as you pulled it out of his pants.

Using a combination of strokes that twisted with varying degrees of pressure, you riled him up more, hoping you could get a verbal indication that the man cracked. A quick glance up and you saw that Bruce’s eyes were closed, his mouth twisted in a tight line. You wouldn’t be able to hear him beg like that.

Blue eyes flashed at you with annoyance as the soft, warm hands that stroked him disappeared. You only smiled and asked him an innocent, ‘What?’ as you slowly undressed in front of him, the chiffon of your shirt meeting your skirt on the floor as you stepped out of that and your underwear, leaving only the stilettos that Bruce bought you.

When you sunk of the floor for a final time, you made sure to press your breasts against his length, the action stirring him to arousal once more. Your tender flesh was some sort of relief to Bruce as he shifted his hips to rub in the valley between them, his eyes watching keenly as the head of his cock pressed against a nipple to stiffen it.

“ _Fuck_.”

That’s what you wanted to say as you took Bruce’s length down your throat, the sudden lack of air making your eyes sting and water as you bobbed up and down. But it was Bruce who had said the word, not you.

Your eyes went up to Bruce’s face the moment the sound escaped his lips, his head turned to the side and a knuckle in his mouth to stifle any other unwanted noises from escaping. There was a slight blush to his face as he cracked an eye open only to catch you staring. To make up for it, his other hand tapped the side of your mouth to remind you to keep on going. But it was too late. You already saw that he was crumbling.

Bruce wouldn’t let such an oversight happen again. He was a smart man. He knew the kind of game you were playing. He saw it in the occasional scowl of yours as he’d dominate you and let his will be known. He heard it in the soft utterances of ‘spoiled’ as you caressed his hair when you thought he was asleep. He knew that you wanted to punish him for what you deemed was bad behavior. You thought he was a brat.

But it was difficult to fight you with the way your tongue flicked against the underside of his head, giving it a hard suck before taking all of him once more. Over and over. _Over and over._

It made his toes curl in pleasure and frustration as you slowed down right before his climax, making the hand that was entwined in your hair pull a little harder. He could hear you swallow down your satisfaction as he grew more obvious in his restlessness and need for you.

You got off him with a loud and wet ‘pop,’ a thick wet string of saliva connecting you to his sex, an unbecoming but incredibly tantalizing dribble of drool down your chin from your previous actions. A hand stroked him idly, enough to keep him hard but not enough to satisfy him.

“It would be easier for both of us if you’d use your manners for once and say ‘please.’”

Bruce scoffed. That was an obvious no. For now. You knew it would only be minutes before he was begging for release and begging for you.

Licking upwards from the base of his shaft and cupping his balls as well, you made sure that your open-mouthed kisses and strokes were controlled, enough to get him to the edge again but not enough to send him off it.

His breathing was heavy and he no longer bothered messing with your hair as his hands gripped the edge of his seat, his knuckles a tight white from his grip on it. Bruce tried to think with a clear head but that coil inside him was wound so tightly, he felt dizzy. The smart move would have been to give you what you wanted. To beg. To plead. Doing so could only benefit him. But he was stubborn and you had forgotten his birthday. A part of him told him to stop acting like the stupid brat you both knew he was but he wasn’t ready to be put in his place.

“Throw away your pride, Bruce,” you told him as you stroked him more roughly, using both hands now on him. “I mean, look at how desperately you’re rutting into my hands for relief.”

He didn’t realized how far gone his self-control was as his hips moved against your fists, needing any kind of friction they would provide. His breathing was ragged too, something you rarely heard unless it was a particularly strenuous meeting.

That coil inside him was taut and he knew he wouldn’t be able to think clearly until it was given some slack, some sort of release.

His voice came out hoard and cracked even at the end of the word. It was time. He had to give in to you.

“ _Please_.”

If you had it your way, you would have had Bruce beg for a little longer. The man struggled with words though and his actions were enough. It wasn’t just his hips moving on their own accord. It was the way his hair was mussed, sweat and subtle squirming making his slicked back locks come undone. It was the way his face flushed under your touch not just from arousal but from embarrassment as his admission. It was the way he never used his manner with you. He always took or demanded. It was the way you could see it in his body that you had finally won for once.

It didn’t take long to make Bruce cum but your throat still wasn’t prepared for the harsh fucking it endured, your nose buried in his neatly trimmed pubes. His cock didn’t completely suffocate, you as you had enough of your wits to you to gently squeeze his sack as he came, the action eliciting guttural groans of praise.

You coughed as the last bit of his load slid down your throat before rising up, for once your figure almost as formidable as his in your stilettos. His eyes were closed and his once tense shoulders were finally relaxed as he laid in the bliss of his orgasm.

You held back your quip about not ordering a side of icing with his slice of cake, turning to see that candle had been blown out of its own accord, the wick nearly at its end and the flame spent, just like the person it was intended for.

“Happy birthday, Bruce.”

It was with satisfaction that you heard his reply, though you weren’t sure if it was because he was still lost in paradise or if he had finally bent to your will and was finally showing his manners.

“Thank you.”


End file.
